


Everything's Different in Germany

by Unchained_Daisychain



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1960, Flavored Lube, Hamburg Era, M/M, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Magazines, Sex Shop, Shameless Smut, Smut, i'm still a piece of g a r b a g e, if the German is off blame google translate, minding my own business when this intrusive idea came along, of the gay variety bc "glasses john!!", paul is quite the collector ;), pure filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-30 12:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21428050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unchained_Daisychain/pseuds/Unchained_Daisychain
Summary: On their first trip to Hamburg, John and Paul accidentally get their hands on a gay porn magazine. Naturally, smut ensues....-It all feels upside down, like the door to that shop was an entrance to some parallel universe or Wonderland-like rabbit hole. He isn’t hiding under the covers with a flashlight in one hand, his throbbing cock in the other, and some meticulously-posed bird’s chest spilling over the pages and onto his lap. Instead he’s in some Hamburg back alley, the concrete chilly beneath his bum and his best mate warm by his side, while he gazes over naked men and pretends not to feel the unexpected interest in his trousers.
Relationships: John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 17
Kudos: 159





	Everything's Different in Germany

**Author's Note:**

> this is honestly the fastest i've ever written a fic. when this idea slapped me in the face out of literally nowhere, i was getting through it like _that_
> 
> I promise I'll get back to more serious stuff soon. rlly wish I could like make a poll or have y'all somehow vote on which chapter fic I should start next bc brain is too much of a mess atm to make that decision for me lmao
> 
> happy reading!

“I think…I think it’s this way…right? No, or was it…?”

“Don’t ask me, mate, it was on you to remember.”

Sighing, Paul drops his hands, runs one through his hair. John knows he could offer more help (or at least as much as his inferior eyesight will allow), but in the dark early hours of the morning, he just can’t be arsed.

They walk for a few more streets in the electric, neon-lit German air. It seems like the whole city is charged up on the amphetamines they’ve been pushing like candy to the band. Every time he licks his lips there’s a crackle on his taste buds.

Eventually John’s eyes take to an exploration of their own, reading shop signs instead of street signs, and he spots one that stops him, and subsequently Paul, in his tracks. It blends in seamlessly with every other brick building flanking it, but there’s a notable difference—an ineffable allure. On the window, adorned with large-fonted posters but not so many as to shield the erotic atmosphere inside, is a collage of unfamiliar German. The only recognizable English word is “SEX”, which doubtlessly is a universal language and one John speaks all too well. 

His lip curls in intrigue; he gives Paul a nudge. “Wanna have a look?”

“In the sex shop?” Paul asks, only making himself sound like the virgin John firmly knows he isn’t. “You’ve seen a sex shop before.”

“Aye, but I ain’t seen a _ German _ one, ‘ave I?”

Paul frowns, unconvinced. “You really think there’s that much of a difference?”

“Only one way to find out, innit?”

With a wink he opens the door.

As the seedy smell of leather and lace walks high-heeled and domineering straight up to his face, John can practically feel Paul shaking his head behind him. Giving the small shop a sizable once-over, he takes in all the reds and blacks and splashes of pinks that assault his eyes like a signal flare.

At a tiny display of wooden paddles, he runs his fingers over the sturdy oak, the tips of them occasionally dipping into the evenly-measured spread of button-sized holes. Then they slide in natural succession to the weighty black leather strap hanging beside it, such an antithesis, but not entirely. He still feels the power leaching into his skin from the touch; whether it be polished wood or worn leather, he can still taste the force behind the blows.

As John browses further, he does vaguely concede that bringing a best mate—another bloke, no less—to a place like this seems a bit backwards. But it’s just Paul. They’ve shared more awkward experiences together, and anyway it’s not like there’s anything to be ashamed about. It’s not like they came in here as a couple.

It’s just Paul.

Once John has moved on from the sadomasochistic section and into tamer territory, his friend sidles up next to him with a lightness in his tone. “So, is it everything it everything you imagined and more?”

“And more.”

Paul breathes a laugh through his nose as his fingers toy, far too casually, with a string of anal beads. “Find any differences yet?”

“Well, all the labels are in German,” John teases, brandishing for emphasis a box of what he knows to be cherry-flavored lube only because of the picture in the bottom corner. “Can’t be sure, but I think I’m onto something with that one. Still needs more investigating.”

With a frown, Paul takes the box from him and examines its contents. “You think this stuff actually tastes any better than the…_hole _ or, y’know, whatever it goes on?”

“If yer keen to find out, I could always lube up me prick for you,” John offers flatly, waggling his eyebrows.

“You’re disgusting.” Nose scrunched, he chucks the lube back onto the shelf. Impatience sneaking into his voice, he adds: “You gonna buy anything or what?”

“Oh Paul,” he says, almost patronizingly, “do I ever _ buy _ anything?”

With his eyes glued unwaveringly to the woman behind the counter, John blindly gropes around for one of the magazines, rolls it up tightly, and slides it down the front of his trousers. Her head stays bowed over the book on the countertop. Clueless as ever.

Shaking his head, Paul laughs, “Just looks like you got hard shoppin’ round.”

John grins down at himself, the slight bulge in his trousers seeming to grin back. “Yeah, all ten inches of me.”

Paul chuckles again, but it’s lost some of its heft. 

When he looks at him again, he sees Paul’s eyes haven’t left his crotch. John swats him on the shoulder, quietly admonishes, “Well don’t fuckin’ draw attention to it. Just carry on, ye git.”

Blinking rapidly, he clumsily occupies himself with the sensuous spread of lacy lingerie. For a few extra minutes, so as not to seem suspicious, they finish up their browsing, John making the occasional lewd quip about the flushed shock on Cyn’s face should she receive a pair of frilly knickers in the post. 

(“I’m a sucker for the pretty things, Macca.”)

The comments don’t quite land as well as they usually do with Paul. Perhaps he’s had his fill of all this.

With all the air of an experienced shoplifter, John keeps his head high despite the insistent press of the magazine against his right thigh. As they head towards the door, Paul offers the shopkeep an amiable, “Auf wiedersehen, love,” but as he removes a hand from his jacket pocket to wave, a familiar bottle of cherry-flavored lube comes tumbling out along with it.

The woman’s eyes narrow to the almost-stolen merchandise on the floor before she lifts her lethal glare to the both of them. “Diebe!” she shouts, red-tipped nails flying up in fury as she rounds the counter. “Raus, diebe!”

Cursing, they high-tail it through the door and down the pavement, heavy-footed and heavy-breathed—boots stomping like hooves with each step, until they sprinkle in enough sharp turns to mislead from their quick escape into a lonesome alley. Against the cold bricks their lungs burn hot as they catch their breaths. 

“Amateur!” John pants, pulling the magazine from his trousers as he slides down the wall. “You’re an amateur, McCartney! I thought I taught you better than this.”

“It was an accident, alright?” Frowning, he sits down next to him. “Sue me.”

“Bloody well ought to, hadn’t I?”

Paul tosses a hand out to the rolled-up loot. “Well, all you got is a soddin’ magazine. Couldn’t even grab something worth a shit—can’t even _ read _ the bloody thing.”

“Oh bollocks,” John bemoans, “now we’ll miss all the edifying articles they always have!” Sobering from the dramatics in a flash, he flattens out the magazine, unable to work out the permanent curvature and bent corners from the sprint. He tosses it onto Paul’s lap. “Better than nothing, innit?”

There’s a brief silence as he hears the glossy friction of ruffling pages.

“No, it’s not, actually. It’s not better than nothing.” His voice raises and the pages turn faster. “You grabbed a fuckin’ queer mag, ye plonker.”

John frowns, turns questioning eyes on him. “Huh?”

“Yeah. Magazine’s fulla fuckin’ blokes, John.” He flips through the flimsy pages and sure enough, on every one that John catches a glimpse of, are muscled chests and proud erections. “And I mean, like…_literally.” _

“Christ, this is just one shitshow after another, eh?” John mutters, tired and defeated, as he faces the dingy sky with unseeing eyes.

“Fuckin’ hell, did you even _ look _ at the thing before you picked it up?” Paul asks, pages still turning beneath his thumb like the embarrassment in John’s gut because for some reason he hasn’t tossed the thing down the alley in disgust yet. “Bet you didn’t even bring yer specs, did ye?”

Ignoring the Mimi-esque criticisms, John snatches the magazine back from him. “Gi’ us that! It can’t be all blokes in ‘ere.”

The faded yellow light from the window of a nightclub provides them minimal, but sufficient, visibility. A sudden determination overrides his annoyance as he skims through the magazine like he _ knows _ they’re merely overlooking something. Every flip feels more futile than the last.

“John, that’s a cock.” The page flips. “And that’s another cock.”

He snorts. “Well, you certainly ain’t gonna see a cunt any time soon with that attitude, son.”

“This is…this is fuckin’ hilarious,” Paul laughs quietly, almost incredulously, resting his head against the bricks so when he shakes it, a slow back-and-forth, his hair rustles against them. “Wait till the lads hear about this one.”

Even though with every passing inch on the pages John knows his hope is dwindling, his fingers simply refuse to stop. They do, however, slow down. He doesn’t parse the reason why, only knows that the autonomic bones of his thumb and forefinger demand his eyes walk the pages with more leisure. 

With a detached sort of curiosity he takes in the homoerotic scenes. One page in particular on which he finds himself lingering shows two men, younger—at least in their twenties, wearing tight white t-shirts, toned muscles bulging against them. It’s one of the more innocent (if he can even use such a word) pictures he’s stumbled upon. Faces bathed in lust; their mouths, moist and open, hover near each other in a not-quite kiss, and John can _ feel _ the heat of their breath radiating off the page.

His stomach tightens the longer he stares.

It all feels upside down, like the door to that shop was an entrance to some parallel universe or Wonderland-like rabbit hole. He isn’t hiding under the covers with a flashlight in one hand, his throbbing cock in the other, and some meticulously-posed bird’s chest spilling over the pages and onto his lap. Instead he’s in some Hamburg back alley, the concrete chilly beneath his bum and his best mate warm by his side, while he gazes over naked men and pretends not to feel the unexpected interest in his trousers.

It doesn’t help that beneath his fingers the magazine itself is cold like the paddles and silky smooth like the lingerie.

On the next page he first notices crisp white naval uniforms. John’s eyes, undulating over the image like its a wave, follow it down the page. Caps knocked askew, jaws wide enough to show a slip of tongue—so obscene, so unlike the last boys—erections pressed together against their taut stomachs where their shirts have been unbuttoned in a presumable haste. And the shape of one of the men gives John pause.

“Oh,” he murmurs without realizing it.

“What?” Paul asks, voice low and nearly startling him. 

For a while he completely forgot he wasn’t by himself, Paul had been so quiet and still beside him. Now he’s suddenly all too aware of him. His side exuding an endless stream of heat, his breathing hardly loud but still thundering to John’s ears. 

He clears his throat, shakes his head, once. “Nothing, just…this one’s not snipped.” Reeling in his earlier cavalier air, he tries, “Don’t always see ones like mine on the cover of a magazine.”

All he hears is Paul swallow. A stone breaking water next to his ear.

He turns to him with a forced playful smile, trying for normalcy. “That’s where you say, ‘But it’s not the cover, John.’”

The only reaction he receives is a huffed laugh through the nose, not even a smile to see it out. Then Paul’s gaze flickers to his mouth, transfixed, and John can’t tell if his blood is rushing through his veins or freezing altogether. 

Soft-voiced, Paul starts, “You ever…?” but the question hangs between them with dangling limbs that he never reaches out to grab.

“What?” John prompts, just as quiet.

The word shatters the trance. Paul blinks, shakes his head.

“Nothing—hey, look at that one—” then he’s pointing at something else.

And John certainly looks alright. 

But it’s not at whatever has suspiciously and suddenly caught his attention in the magazine. No, what John looks at is the front of his mate’s trousers and the telling bulge there.

“Yer hard.” There’s no judgement in his voice; in fact his voice doesn’t hold much of anything besides a simple statement of fact. But then, out of nowhere, as the realization sinks in, John collapses into giggles. “Bleedin’ Christ, Paulie’s popped a stiffy from a queer nudey mag!”

“I’m not—it’s just from the shop,” Paul protests defensively, a frown puckering his brow.

John wags a finger at him, grinning like a maniac. “No, no, you sly bastard, you were limp as a glove in there.”

Then suddenly Paul reaches over, thrusting his hand right into John’s own crotch, and—

“So’re you.” 

He sobers in an instant. The magazine crinkles noisily as it fumbles in his grip. He swallows. 

“So?” is all he can contend, defensively.

“So?”

The seconds pass between them with the weight of years.

With his eyes fixed heavily on John’s and a hand still planted firmly in his lap, Paul squeezes, once, slow and cautious. John knows his eyes flutter, dammit, gaze faltering, but there’s little to be done about it. Because Paul is still watching him with calculated attention—clocking even the faintest shift of his lashes, probably.

He does it again and John’s hand covers his. Not sure if he means to jerk him away or encourage him, they both still until John’s fingers are once again speaking for him and adding pressure, pressing Paul’s curved fingers harder into the tent of his trousers. Once Paul resumes the rubbing, more confident now, John walks his fingers up his wrist like he has so many times before, just never with this type of intent.

How are things still so similar yet so different?

His head lolls against the bricks, tilting on a lust-loosened neck to watch Paul watching him. Somehow he’s closer than before, his full, pink lips a temptation right in front of him. The grip on his hard-on tightens, earning a small gasp just as Paul leans in to kiss him. 

John’s hand leaves Paul’s wrist to cradle his jaw, steady it and keep him close. The rhythm in his lap stutters, as though it’s traveling its way up Paul’s body and into their kiss. But John is okay with that. He’s perfectly fine with making the sacrifice if it means more of Paul’s tongue sliding velvety and slick alongside his own. If it means more of those sinful little sounds being pushed into his own mouth like he wants John to taste what he’s doing to him.

Fuck, how did they even get here?

In the back of his throat Paul makes this little noise of frustration before he’s closing every gap between them and straddling John’s lap and nipping gently at his lip until his head swims with it. Paul grinds his hips against him, subtle at first—the pages from the magazine wrinkling more and more with each movement because he had been so keen he didn’t even push it aside first. John places his hands on the spurs of Paul’s hips, driven absolutely mad by the way they shift gracefully under them. 

When he leans back to catch his breath, panting hotly against John’s mouth, John is taken by how fucking stunning he looks. Doe eyes heavy-lidded, mouth moist and reddened, cheeks rouged by the weather or the want—God knows which. Heavenly enough to lay across a bed and worship with body and soul for hours.

Desperately he has to know what’s gotten him so worked up, so unbridled.

“Which was it, love?” John asks, words husky and dripping with lust. “The magazine…or me?”

His hips undulate in a response of their own before Paul answers breathily, “Both. It was both”—he swallows, dry—“mainly you.”

Then, like he can’t resist it any longer, Paul unzips his leather trousers and pushes them lower down his hips until his dark nest of hair and leaking cock are free. And John has seen it before (has covertly stolen glances in a wanking session), but never this close…so that he can nearly smell the heat and intoxicating musk of him. When Paul takes himself into his hand, tugging a few times and letting his eyes slip shut, pale column of his neck exposed to John and the charcoal sky, John’s tongue feels so heavy in his mouth he fears he may choke on it.

Mind fuzzing, he knocks Paul’s hand out of the way and wraps his own fingers around him instead. The groan that tears through Paul’s throat the very first time John touches him will doubtlessly haunt his wet dreams forever. As John’s hand, slickened by the precome, sets an unhurried pace Paul buries kisses and gentle bites into his neck.

“Wait—here,” he interrupts before John gets too far, like he’s remembering something, and reaches into his jacket pocket, and it’s….

Another fucking bottle of lube. This time watermelon-flavored.

Jesus Christ.

“Fuckin’ hell, did ye take every flavor but grape?” John quips, but rips eagerly into its packaging anyway.

“Shut up, I was curious.”

He tilts his head so he can get a glimpse of Paul, but only sees the cherry-tipped shell of his ear; he kisses it. “Jim really doesn’t feed you, does ‘e?”

Paul chuckles against his neck and it feels almost as good as any kiss laid there. When he hears the squirt of the bottle, though, he lifts his head from John’s shoulder in sudden interest. With eyes half curious and half aroused, he watches John touch the tip of his finger to his tongue for a taste.

“What’s it like?” he asks, voice gone throaty and thick—one more transformation closer to Elvis.

In response John holds up two of his lube-coated fingers so Paul can try it for himself. And fuck, he puckers his lips right around them without an ounce of hesitation or self-conciousness. Exuding a confidence John downright envies. The delicate curl of his tongue around the sensitive balls of John’s fingers has his cock twitching in an envy of its own. 

“Not bad, eh?” he appraises when it feels as though he’s licked every drop off.

And John wants to comment on how he certainly got a thorough enough taste, but has that heavy-tongued feeling again and can only manage to drizzle the lube into his palm for a smooth slide across Paul’s cock. 

His best mate’s cock. 

Shit.

He’s never held one that wasn’t attached to himself, so he tries not to think about the backwards angle and works from sheer muscle memory. The shape of Paul is so different; still veiny and smooth and bathed in heat, but just snipped and a touch slimmer than his own. John can’t resist watching it slip back and forth in the cradle of his palm, admiring the foreign heft—wants to haul down his own trousers and feel it next to his own, but at the same time refuses to take a finger off him for a single second.

And anyway, Paul is so _ noisy _ that John fears he just might already come in his trousers like some virgin schoolboy at every hitch of breath alone. Every sound etched like a lewd tattoo into the sweaty skin of John’s neck. With the added _ slick-slick _ of him wanking another bloke off—the knowledge that that is in fact what’s happening—it’s a wonder he hasn’t lost it already.

He quickens the pace.

Paul moans his approval.

“C’mon, baby, give it to me,” John encourages, receiving a backlash of the heat of his own breath ricocheting from Paul’s skin. It burns his cheeks, reminds him that this is his best mate he’s dirty-talking…calling _ baby. _ “Let go.”

“A-almost…shit…,” Paul murmurs, but decides to sacrifice the rest of the words to John’s mouth with a deep, filthy kiss. One that has John miraculously perfecting his rhythm rather than faltering on it.

And in one—two more tight-fisted pumps, he comes warm and wet across John’s hand and the magazine alike.

John doesn’t think that image will ever leave his head—Paul coming while sat in his lap. Face screwed up like it’s been pinched together by pleasure’s fingers; eyebrows knitted and jaw clenched stiff on a high that must be so potent it’s chewable; a single higher-pitched whimper like he’s just thrown himself into a rapid-tempoed Little Richard number that John will surely never hear the same way again. 

Better than anything a magazine could ever offer.

As he recuperates, features smoothing back out, he pants hotly against John’s mouth, reminiscent in a way of that first photo in the magazine as it hangs open and ready at any moment for another one of those dizzying kisses. 

Between them there’s quite the mess. The magazine has pearlescent strings of spunk between the wrinkled pages, staining the hairy thighs of their only witnesses. But it’s also on John’s own lap and his hand, which he cleans off on the unsoiled edges of the magazine before chucking it aside to the surly concrete. Not like he’ll be taking that home with him anyway.

With lust- and orgasm-glazed eyes, Paul looks down at the hard-on still entrapped by John’s trousers. “Can I…?” 

“Well, I’ve kinda got a headache tonight,” John quips, cheekiness always on the ready. Somehow it still feels natural with Paul even after all of this.

Only confirmed when he fires back, “You _ are _ a headache,” and juxtaposes their familiar banter with this drastic sexual shift by unzipping John’s trousers.

The crisp night air walks its own fingers across his cock just a moment before Paul’s do. His mouth goes dry in a heartbeat, all jokes lost.

Paul is looking down at it, hand unmoving but grip firm at the base, licking his lips like he does in contemplation. Then—

“Let me suck you off.”

John blinks at him. “You know I was jokin’ about that, right?” he clarifies, laughing a little bit because his head is positively _ swimming _and Paul can’t be serious.

The lad can’t _ possibly _ be feeling that adventurous.

“I know.”

John closes his eyes, blows out a hefty breath. “Jesus, Macca.”

“Is it too much?” he asks, concern trickling in.

“No, no, just—what’re you fuckin’ _ doin’ _ to me, love?”

With relief brightening his eyes and a smirk lifting his lips, he sets to it.

John bites his lip in anticipation as he watches Paul drizzle more of the lube on his febrile skin. He wonders if Paul fancied the taste that much or just fears the one he’s about to experience. Tentatively, almost shyly, he angles John cock towards him and glides his tongue along the head, experimental. 

From this angle, all John can see are those lashes, curling endlessly and swaddled by shadows that make them appear even longer. 

_ Almost like a bird’s. _

But John stiff-arms that comment from his head as quickly as it arrived. If Paul ever heard him say that, in this kind of situation, when they aren’t hurling sharp-tongued insults at each other, he’d never hear the fucking end of it. Anyway, John doesn’t want him to look like a bird or even go down on him like one (despite him not being able to necessarily feel a difference at the moment). He wants him to be _ Paul. _ Delicate-featured but decidedly-masculine Paul. 

_ (It’s just Paul.) _

When his plump, plush mouth finally overcomes its hesitancy and takes him inside, John breathes a sigh that felt buried in the bottommost depths of his sternum.

The up-and-down is instantly smooth and slick from the added lubricant; the flicks of his tongue are unskilled but not at all unpleasant. In fact the sloppiness of Paul’s virgin, blow job-administering mouth is arguably a bigger turn-on than it has any right to be. Reminding John of when he got his first guitar and didn’t know how to play it but didn’t care, because he was _ trying _ and he _ loved _ it. 

He gets a sense of both—the effort and the passion—from Paul now.

Because fucking hell, he’s bent over John’s cock—finding his rhythm as he always eventually does—like some back-alley whore (but with half the experience) because he was too eager to even ask John to stand back against the wall or some other such reasonable position. Any minute someone could peer down the mouth of this alley, catch them like this, snap a picture, and publish them in the next issue of the magazine that started it all. 

The arousal, the blood in John’s veins, is so sluggish and coagulated he feels it all bottoming out at his sacrum, paralyzing him with it.

As though to ground himself through the sensation, he rummages a hand into Paul’s dark hair; pulling a touch harder than he’d meant to, but realizing for once he can be _ rough _ if the rumbling moan that splinters vibrations down his cock like aftershocks is anything to go by. He curses, hand flying out for the concrete for even more support but landing on the come-soaked magazine instead. 

For one thing, it’s the sounds—the _ sounds _ Paul makes when he swallows him. Choking on occasion but powering through it, as if John could possibly _ tease _ him for it. (For doing something John isn’t even sure he’d have the courage to do a month from now). Somehow, maybe from memory of what he likes to feel himself, knowing to save each hum or moan for the very base of his cock, when it rattles the spine most powerfully.

_ God, _ he’s almost there. Muttering one iteration, “Paul…_Paul,” _ like a praise, maybe a warning. All of that blood-arousal concoction bubbling back out from his sacrum—pooling in his viscera, knocking at his sternum—until with one hand fisted into the magazine and the other in Paul’s hair, he comes. Bucking the slightest few inches deeper. Moaning, _ loud, _ despite his best efforts to keep quiet altogether.

He sucks him through it as the world fuzzes at the corners of John’s vision.

Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, Paul resurfaces. And fucking hell, that mad, ballsy bastard swallowed too, didn’t he? On his first time. If possible, he looks even more wrecked than before—bright-eyed and messy-haired—even when he was thrown headfirst into his own pleasure. 

John reaches out, swipes his thumb tenderly across the corner of his mouth where he missed a spot, then leads him into a deep, languid kiss. He tastes like artificial watermelon and come. John isn’t quite sure about that combination, perhaps they neutralize one another, but he can’t keep his lips still long enough to decide.

When he does eventually pull away, he tells Paul in a lazy murmur, “Yer a natural, McCartney.”

He bites the smile on his lips, glancing down almost coquettishly. “That was…different.”

“Wanna know why that is?”

He looks back up at him, pairing those breathtaking eyes with that patented McCharmly tone. “Why’s that, Johnny?”

And really, all John can do is grin, cheeky and wide, as his mind carries him back to those first few moments before they tumbled hand-in-hand down the rabbit hole.

“‘Cos it was German.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading; let me know what you thought!
> 
> sooo I actually did make a poll lmao and I'm not sure how this'll work, but if you'd leave a vote on which fic out of three you would like to read next, I would greatly appreciate it. you shouldn't have to make an account or sign up for anything, just click the link and vote.
> 
> [VOTE HERE](https://linkto.run/p/MF2KZ3VN)
> 
> follow me on [tumblr dot com](https://unchaineddaisychain.tumblr.com) and let me know any opinions on the future fics!


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